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I care not : though this face be seen no more,
THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. PITY the forrows of a poor old man!
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your Whofe days are dwindled to the shorteft span;
Oh! give relief—and Heav’n will bless your ttore. These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak;
These hoary locks proclaim my leigthen'd rears; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a stream of tears. Yon houfe, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road; For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.
Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
To feek a shelter in an huinbler shed.
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor, and miferably old.
Should I reveal the source of every grief,
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relier,
And tears of pity could not be repreti. Heav’n sends misfortunes-why should we repine ?
'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the ftate you fee: And your condition may be foon like mine
The child of forrow-and of misery, A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then, like the lark, I sprightly haild the morn; But ah! oppreflion forc'd me from my cot,
My cattle dy’d, and blighted was my corn. My daughter-once the comfort of my age!
Lur'd by a villain from her native home, Is cast abandon’d on the world's wide-fiage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. My tender wife-sweet foother of my care!
Struck with fad anguish at the stern decree, Fell-ling’ring fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your Whose days are dwindled to the Mortest span;
Oh! give relief—and Heav'n will bless your store.
THE BULWARKS OF SOCIETY.
WHAT constitutes a ftate ?
Thick wall or moated gate ;
Not bays and broad arm'd ports,
Not starr'd and spangled courts,
In foreft, brake, or den,
Men who their duties know,
tain, Prevent the long-aim'd blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain :
These confiitute a state,
O’er thrones and globes elate,
Smit by her sacred frown,
And e'en the all-dazzling crown
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD, THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind flowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the gliminering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a solemn fiillness holds,
And drowfy tinklings lull the diftant folds;
The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient lolitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where leaves the turfin many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hainlet Neep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the liraw-built shed, The cock's Thrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more thall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or buty housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to Thare. Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the fiubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field!
How bow'd the woods beneath their liurdy tiroke: Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and defiiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e?er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. for you, ye proud, impute to these the
If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raile, Where through the long-drawnaille and frettedvault,
The peeling anthem fwelis the note of praile. Can fioried urn, or animated buít,
Back to its manfion call the feeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or flattery footh the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empires might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecfiafy the living lyre.
Rich with ihe spoils of time, did we'er unroll;
And froze the genial current of the foul..
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear :
And walte its sweetness on the detert air.
The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Some lovely fair, whose unaffected charms
Shone with attraction to herself unknown ; Whofe beauty might have bless’da monarch's arms,
And virtue cast a luftre on the throne.
And cheer'd the labours of a faithful ipouse;
The healthful' offspring that adorn'd their house. Th' applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to defpile, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes; Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The ftruggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine, of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the muse's flame. The thoughtless world to majesty may bow,
Exalt the brave, and idolize fucceis ; But more to innocence their safety owe,
Than pow'r, or genius, e'er confpir’d to bless.
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;